The Three Marys

by

 S.C. Butler

 

He’s my son, and I love him. Oh, how I love him.

Everyone does. Even the priests. There are no exceptions. We can’t help ourselves. We love him the way we love the first tiny shoots of grain. The way we love the harvest, and the way we love the feast.

Even after the demons took him, the Nephilim, I loved him. When the Baptist brought him back in the cool waters of the Jordan, and he became the world’s and not just mine, preaching, teaching, healing, I loved him. His love might have left me, but how could mine not follow? He was always kind and gentle, but after he came back from the dead the second time he was the kindest, and the gentlest. His love is greater than any other love in the world.

That’s why the priests killed him. So much love frightens them. My son challenges their every thought and action, their every hope and belief. Their rules and privileges. Their god. And though they can’t help but love him, they know they can’t love like him. They don’t believe anyone else can, either. They might be right, but I would still never have tried to kill him. Impossible or not, so great a goodness can only help the world. It cannot hurt. Except those who don’t believe in goodness.

No one can love everyone. Or be loved by everyone.

It’s unnatural.

My son told me so himself, at a wedding in Cana. It was the first time I saw him after he came back from the desert. Crowds followed him even then, but I only noticed him. For months I’d thought he was dead, and when I hugged him close and felt no heartbeat in his chest I knew I was right. I shrank from him then, because everyone knows the Nephilim are the worst kind of demon. But he smiled, and gently kissed my hands. His love disarmed my fear. He told me he’d died and been born again a second time.

When Nephilim die, he said, the angel they once were returns.

A knock at the door reminds me it’s almost morning. I wipe my eyes with my shawl. Losing the same child twice is like losing him over and over, forever.

Cleopas embraces me as I open the door. Magdalene also kisses me, and I’m glad for both their comfort. Their eyes are moist with sympathy and shared heartache.

“Mary,” my sister says. She regards me carefully. Magdalene settles on the short stool against the wall. Although he’s wealthy, Joseph of Arimathea has given me a small room rather than a large one, for fear of attracting the priests’ attention. And because of the private door to the street.

“Have you slept?” Cleopas asks.

I shake my head.

“You poor dear.”

“You should have slept.” Magdalene scolds me from her stool. No matter how hard she tries to soften it, her manner is always hard. “We have a lot to do.”

Cleopas comes to my defense. “You and I might have slept, but not Mary. Can’t you think of what she’s been through?”

I try not to cry. Not now, when there’s still so much to do. Instead I try to remember my son’s love, not his pain, though both memories make my heart ache equally.

Magdalene purses her mouth. “The time for tender-heartedness is over. We have to be practical now.”

Sometimes I wonder how different everything would be if my son had met Magdalene before he went into the desert. Before the Nephilim made him one of them. They would have married, of course. Magdalene would have made sure of that. Despite her manner, she’s a striking woman. And brilliant, too. She understands him better than anyone, especially the things he’s only told the three of us. He loves her very much. Were it in his nature to prefer anyone, I think he’d prefer her. But it’s not, so she leads the women instead. I think she does a better job with us than Peter or James do with the men. My son’s teaching can be very obscure. Without his gift of love, I’m not sure nearly as many people would follow him. Not everyone’s as clever as Magdalene.

Cleopas pats my shoulder, and sits on the bed beside me. She isn’t as physically strong as Magdalene or I, but she bears her love more easily than we do. She may be his aunt, but she loves my son because he loves her, and for no other reason. For her, he is neither son nor man.

“We should have come earlier,” she says. “We should never have let you mourn alone.”

“I needed some time by myself.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything, either.”

“I did have a little wine.”

Magdalene rolls her eyes. Cleopas clucks protectively.

“I thought so. We brought you some soup.”

Magdalene draws a small basket from her cloak. I smile in weak surrender. Trust the two of them to come prepared. Inside the basket are bread and a flask of cold broth. I’m not hungry, but I accept the bread from my sister, and sip the soup when Magdalene lifts it to my lips. Though cold, it’s delicious. Salty and thick. Suddenly hungry, I drain the flask in several long gulps.

“That was good. Thank you.”

Cleopas hands me a napkin.

“Is there more bread?” I ask.

She hands me another piece, happy to feed me. Though it will never make up for the loss of my son’s, her love still brightens the world a tiny bit.

“You had no trouble on the street?”

“None.” Magdalene shakes her head. “Everyone’s hiding. Even James. It’s easy enough for the Romans to keep order, now that they’ve fed the mob.”

“Have you seen anyone at all?” I break off another bit of bread. “Since yesterday, I mean.”

“We did see that nice Judas,” Cleopas says. “But everyone else is afraid Pilate’s men are following us. Or maybe the priests’.”

“They don’t know what they think, now your son isn’t around to tell them what to do.” Magdalene frowns in that way she has when anyone disappoints her. “Not knowing what to be afraid of, they’re afraid of everything.”

“Did Judas say anything?” I ask.

“He said he was sorry,” Cleopas answers.

“We’re all sorry.”

Magdalene nods firmly.

“The funny thing is,” Cleopas continues, “it sounded like he was actually apologizing for something.” Reaching into her robe, she brings out a small, jingling purse. “I guess this sort of thing just affects everyone differently. He gave me this.”

“Where did Judas get money?”

“He didn’t say.” My sister tucks the purse back inside her robe. “It’s all silver, too.”

“We already spent some of it.” Magdalene draws a second package from her robe. As long as her forearm, but thinner. Laying it in her lap, she carefully unfolds the linen wrapping. Cleopas clasps my hand, which I know means she expects me to find what Magdalene is about to show me extremely disagreeable. Really, though, what could be worse than what we’d already been through? Or what we still had to do?

Knowing Cleopas probably needs support more than I do, I tighten my grip on her hand as the knife is revealed. Except it isn’t a knife at all, but a surgeon’s saw. Dozens of tiny, wicked teeth line the blade. Wicked teeth for a wicked job.

“Do you think we’ll really need that?”

“Yes.” Carefully, Magdalene rewraps the blade.

I take another bite of flatbread, and chew it hard. Steeling myself, I stand. My head starts to swim, and my knees buckle. I lean on the wall for support, and Cleopas and Magdalene are by my side immediately.

“Really, sister.” Cleopas lifts my arm around her shoulder. “Maybe you should just stay here.”

Magdalene opens the door to the street. The alley outside is still dark.

“You brought him into the world, Mary. It isn’t fair you have to help him leave too.”

I take several deep breaths. After the small room’s stuffiness, even the streets of Jerusalem smell as clear as the hills in Galilee.

“I want to see him,” I say as my dizziness passes. “Whatever he is, he is still my son.”

We wrap ourselves in our shawls, and leave the house. Cool mist fills the alley. Cleopas slips her arm companionably through mine, and Magdalene leads the way. We hurry through the streets, ignoring the few people we pass, and being ignored in turn. I never cease to be astonished at how easy this is in Jerusalem. In Nazareth we couldn’t have passed a single house without someone calling out a greeting or asking what we were up to. In Jerusalem no one is interested in anyone else’s business. Except the priests, of course. They think they should know everything. And yet they don’t even understand what they did when they killed my son. They think the Nephilim are folk-tales, like Jonah and Goliath. They have no idea at all of what they’ve invited back into the world.

My son has taught us better.

Joseph’s directions are exact. We find the tomb in a garden near where the Roman soldiers hung him. It is a spring garden, and the rockrose and broom spread a lovely pink and yellow across the stony hillside. Last year’s olive leaves litter the ground.

“Where are the soldiers?” I look around in distress. “Don’t tell me Pilate wants the mob to desecrate his tomb?”

Magdalene looks at Cleopas, who rolls her eyes guiltily as she jingles Judas’ purse.

“We visited the soldiers before we came to you,” Magdalene says.

The crypt is built into the side of a small hill, with a fine view of the city. Pale light halos the Mount of Olives, but the sun still hasn’t risen. Fingers of orange and yellow stretch toward the temple. I don’t want the scene to be so beautiful, but can’t help admitting it is. As beautiful a dawn as I ever saw. It isn’t fair, but then my son would be the first to say that fairness isn’t the point. The whole point of his love is to give it freely, without expectation of return. Perhaps someday the rest of the world will love the way he does. In the meantime, we must love in order to find goodness in ourselves, regardless of what we find in others.

I brush away a tear with a corner of my shawl. My son’s love is much more beautiful than any dawn.

A large stone blocks the tomb’s entrance. “Now what do we do?” Cleopas asks.

“We move the stone.” Magdalene measures its weight practically.

“Do you think we can?”

“We’re not that weak, Cleopas. Even if we are women.”

Old women, I think, as Magdalene puts her shoulder to the stone. At least Cleopas and I are. Grandmothers. It usually takes two strong men to open a tomb, but Magdalene’s determination is infectious. I reach over her head and set my legs against the ground, and the rock starts to turn. Cleopas pushes too, scooting in under Magdalene because she’s the shortest. It’s easier than we thought.

A heavy, sweet scent pours out of the half-open doorway. Cleopas waves a hand in front of her face. “That’s a lot of myrrh.”

“Nicodemus said he and Joseph bought a hundred pounds.”

Magdalene frowns, offended by their extravagance, but I appreciate it. Rich men like Joseph and Nicodemus know no better way to show their respect than by spending money. My son would love them for it, the same way he’d love a woman with no other gift but her tears.

It’s dark inside, but the sky has already pearled, and it’s not so dark we can’t see. Still, it takes a few minutes before I find him swaddled in white linen on a stone bench against the back wall.

Cleopas and I burst into tears.

Magdalene is already standing at his head. She reaches out tentatively, but pulls her hand back before her fingertips touch the napkin covering his face. Her normal confidence is gone. She tries again unsuccessfully, then turns to my sister and me.

“Are we sure we’re doing the right thing?” she asks.

Cleopas wrings her hands. “How can you say that? Didn’t he ask us to do it?”

“I know. But are we sure? He isn’t always right, you know.”

“Mary!”

“Well, he isn’t.” Magdalene nods toward the bench. “He wouldn’t have ended up here if he was. He knew this would happen, but no, he has to ride into Jerusalem right before Passover and preach right under the priests’ noses. Of course they arrested him.”

“But Mary,” Cleopas pleads. “He meant to be arrested. Isn’t that what he told us?”

“That’s just my point.” Magdalene wags a confident finger. “What sort of teacher deliberately gets himself killed? Who’s going to spread his wisdom now?”

“You,” I answer.

Magdalene laughs. She has always been so cynical about what a woman can do. “As if any man in Judea would listen to me.”

“We listen,” Cleopas says.

“You’re not men.”

“We have to do what he asked, Mary,” I say. “Letting him rise again is too risky. He’ll be a demon. A creature of hate, not love. A Nephilim who will use his teachings for its own lusts.”

Magdalene remains unconvinced. “The Baptist cured him once. We could cure him too.”

Cleopas covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Mary! We could never do that!”

“We don’t know how,” I agree.

“I do.” Magdalene’s look is triumphant. She thinks she can convince us now. “I asked him myself. You know how he is. He can’t not answer a question, even if he doesn’t want to. Even if he thinks you shouldn’t know the answer. He’s too honest.”

“Too good,” I say.

Magdalene ignores me. “It’s really very simple. All we have to do is take the body somewhere and wait.”

“I don’t want to hear any of this!”

“Stop it, Mary.” I pull my sister’s hands away from her ears. Even though I’m younger, she usually listens to me. “We’ll do what my son asked. But we’ll hear what Mary Magdalene has to say, too. She loved him as much as any of us.”

I turn back to Magdalene. “I know what you want, Mary. I want it too. But it really is impossible. At the very least, there’s no way the three of us can carry him through the city without attracting attention. It’s already too light.”

“We can come back tonight.”

“With what? A couple of laborers and a cart? Everyone knows my son’s buried here. Really, Mary, we’d never keep the secret.”

“We could get a couple of the disciples. James would do it. And maybe Judas. We rent a cart, take the body to Joseph’s house. Or better yet, we don’t even bring it into the city. We could take it out to the desert, to Qumram. Those crazy Essenes dislike the priests more than anyone. I’m sure they’d let us hide him there. Then it’s just a matter of waiting for him to wake up, stab him in the heart with a wooden spear, and wait for him to come back again as himself. It couldn’t be easier. He told me how it works—once you’re undead, the pattern repeats itself every time your heart is pierced with wood. Only fire, or this,” Magdalene pulls the surgeon’s saw from her sleeve, “ends the cycle.”

“We’d never get away with it,” Cleopas breathes.

“We would.”

“But what will everyone say when he comes back?”

“They’ll say the same thing they said about Lazarus. ‘It’s a miracle!’” Magdalene waves her arms mockingly. “And why shouldn’t they? If Lazarus can come back from the dead, why not your son?”

“Lazarus wasn’t really dead,” I point out. “Those people who say it was a miracle are just ignorant. Like that time at the wedding when they mixed up the water and the wine.”

“Don’t forget the loaves and fishes,” Cleopas reminds us. “We still haven’t figured out how he did that.”

Magdalene shrugs. “So they make the same mistake this time, too. What’s it matter to us? It’ll attract even more followers. That’s what we want, isn’t it? More people to know his love? Think of the crowds your son will attract if people think he rose from the dead. It’ll be even better than Lazarus. They’ll think they can rise from the dead, too.”

Magdalene’s eyes spark with passion. Her shoulders heave. Her excitement fires me as well, and I find it difficult to resist her. For a moment I’m tempted. My beautiful son might never die.

If only it was so easy.

“I spoke to him as well Mary. After you. He was afraid you might try to talk us out of it. He told me to tell you that’s not what he wants. The Baptist knew what he was doing. We don’t. We’d have to watch my son’s body day and night for months. That’s how long it takes. And if we relax our vigil in the slightest, the demon in him will almost certainly take advantage. He’s more afraid of that, Mary, than anything. If you can’t bring yourself to do it, Mary Cleopas and I will do it ourselves. I brought a knife too, you know. We won’t need yours.”

My blade is from Joseph’s kitchen, long and straight, far sharper than any knife I ever owned. Magdalene stiffens at the sight of it.

“Are you threatening me?”

“What? Oh, no, dear. Of course not.” I lay the blade flat on the side of the bench, and embrace her. Taking her hands in mine, I look in her face. “I’d never do that. I love you as if you were my own child.”

Her lip trembles. Magdalene, who is always so strong. For the first time, I wonder if I’m going to have to do this myself. But I’m not as strong as she is, and don’t think I can. I’d never forgive myself, especially knowing Magdalene thought it was the wrong choice. Even though he asked us to do it, to save him from the monster he’ll become.

“Won’t you help me?” I plead. I chafe her hands lovingly. “Please?”

She takes a long breath. The terror in her eyes fades. She is a fierce woman, and the hug she gives me is as strong as any I ever received from my husband or children. I grieve for the grandchildren she’d have given me, but swallow my disappointment. It’s very hard. But what are grandchildren compared to loving the entire world?

“All right,” she says. Her shoulders slump. Her hope is gone forever. “I’m still not sure we’re doing the right thing, but it is what he asked. I can only imagine what the disciples are going to say when they see what we’ve done.”

“I’m certainly not going to tell them,” Cleopas says.

“Of course not,” I assure her. “But you know the men. They’ll make something up, if only to make themselves feel better. They know just enough about what the Baptist did to get it all wrong, too.”

“Personally,” Magdalene says, “I don’t care how his teaching is spread. Just as long as it spreads.”

“Shouldn’t we get on with it?” Cleopas looks nervously at the door. The sun has risen high enough to throw a blade of light almost all the way to the back of the crypt. “Isn’t someone bound to notice the open door?”

Magdalene snaps into action. With quick orders she positions Cleopas and me at my son’s shoulders, while she takes his feet. The myrrh is really overpowering now. The scent almost lifts me off the floor, it’s so strong. I blink, and it takes a moment before I can focus on anything else.

I run my hand along the slick cloth. My heartbeat quickens. His remains still as stone. He never could hide anything from me. Or Magdalene. What other excuse did he have for not accepting what she offered, except that he was already dead? She was very persistent.

She loved him even more after she learned his secret. How could she not? He told us that most Nephilim who rise again flee gibbering into the wilderness, too overcome by the memory of the evil they’ve done to manage much more from their third life than fasting and mortification. Anchorites eating filth. My son sought out several of them after his own second resurrection, hoping to help them rise above their guilt to the state of love in which he found himself. For them, it wasn’t possible. My son has always been a kind and gentle man, loving and forgiving. I believe that’s why he was able to forgive himself for what they could not. For hunting men and women the way men and women hunt the beasts of the field. His strength has always been in his soul.

My hand lingers on the cloth above his heart. There is no fluttering. My heart breaking at this second loss, I lift the napkin from his peaceful face.

He looks no different. Oil glistens in his hair and beard. Bending over, I kiss him gently.

“We should put him on the floor,” Magdalene says.

“Do we have to?” Cleopas grumbles.

“It’ll be much easier. The bench is too narrow. I won’t be able to get any leverage.”

“It’s almost over, Mary.” I smile, and try to comfort my sister despite my own grief.

We take his arms and shoulders. Magdalene lifts his feet. He is much heavier than I expect. Although his body is limp and slick with incense and oil, we lower him to the stony floor without dropping him. I remember how slight and easy to carry he was as a child. And always so quick to jump into my arms.

I take Joseph’s knife again, but hesitate. My hands tremble. My mouth turns dry. I really can’t do this.

“Let me, Mary.”

Kissing my cheek, Magdalene deftly takes the knife from my hand. The stone clinks as she lays it on the bench and picks up the surgeon’s saw. Cleopas starts to weep. I turn away. When I hear Magdalene kneel on the floor I move all the way to the front of the crypt, but even there I can hear the soft grinding of the saw. I want to go out into the warm sunshine, but don’t want to be disloyal. It’s bad enough I can’t do it myself, or even watch. To go away completely would be even worse. So I stand in the shadow of the entrance wringing my robe. Tears stream down my cheeks. His gentle hands would have wiped them away, and he would have told me not to weep, that his love will always be with me. But that’s no consolation now. My beautiful boy, whom I would have loved even when he was with the Nephilim, is dying for the final time. He will not come back again.

Love is well and good when your children survive you. When they die first, its burden makes you inconsolable.

Cleopas joins me. She puts her arm around my waist so we weep together. I lean my head against her shoulder. Even at the edge of the crypt, the scent of oil and myrrh overwhelm the softer smells of hearth and home that linger in her hair.

Behind us, Magdalene grunts. Her sandals scuff the stone. I swallow the hard knot rising in my throat. At least the myrrh masks the smell of blood, if there is any. I picture Magdalene moving around his body, and am reminded of how my son and his father used to shift positions when they were planing planks in front of the house, searching for the best angle.

The sun lifts another inch above the eastern hills. The doorway’s shadow drops below our knees. Across the valley, Jerusalem shines in the rising sunlight.

“It’s done.”

Magdalene comes up behind us. Something round and heavy sags in the folds of her robe beneath her arm.

I look back. The floor is empty.

“Where…?”

“There’s no body.”

“But what…?”

I look at the bunched fabric underneath Magdalene’s arm.

“This is all that’s left. Everything else disappeared.”

Cleopas makes a sign of warding.

“Do you want to look?” Magdalene offers to unwrap the folds of her robe.

I hold up my hands. “No. Please.”

Cleopas leads us out of the crypt.

“Did you know this would happen?” I ask.

Magdalene nods.

“But what are you going to do with it?”

“Bury it. Tonight. Where no one can see. You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

“Thank, God,” Cleopas breathes.

I know I’ll want to be there. I ask another question so I don’t have to think about it.

“What are we going to tell Peter and the others when they find the empty tomb?”

Magdalene shrugs. She scrambles to catch her burden as it almost slips out of her robe. “Some version of the truth, I suppose. Something they want to hear. That way they might actually believe us. Like you said, the men are going to make up some nonsense about what happened anyway. They won’t be able to just love him, like we do. For them, it’s not that simple.”

She hefts my son’s head one more time, gets a better grip, and leads us down the hill to Jerusalem.